Lisandro Martinez

SATURDAY – 12:18 pm

It was Saturday. They shouted to me from downstairs: —Come on, get up! Go to the kiosk and buy a large Coke.

I sighed. I changed and crossed over to the "slum neighborhood". As usual. I was never afraid. And although I would never admit it, I also went there because Lisandro Martínez worked there.

They had always gone to the same school. He watched me grow up asking him for figurines. I watched him go from being a little boy to running errands on his own. We were never friends. Just "hello" and "goodbye". And when he went into the kiosk, he always said the same thing: "Cheta." You arrived at the kiosk and rang the bell. Ding ding. Nothing. The curtain comes down. You tried again. Harder. Silence. Only the birds and a distant cumbia could be heard.

—Hello...? —you called from behind the gate, standing on your tiptoes. No answer. You frowned. How strange. It was always open at this time. And there you saw them. On the way back, on the sidewalk by the plaza. There were Lisandro, Lautaro, Enzo, Julián, and Colo, sitting on the curb with the speaker, waiting for Nico Paz. They were all wearing tank tops and caps, laughing their heads off. You walked to them. Six blocks under the sun. The dry grass kicked up dirt on your flip-flops and hit your ankles. —Lisander! —you shouted. He was lying back, leaning on his hands, talking to Colo. Only when Lautaro touched his shoulder did he turn around. And there he was. Wearing his AFA jersey, his wet hair slicked back, and that same old mocking smile. The one that always made you laugh. —Look who showed up... —he said slowly— Did you come to buy something or to bother me, rich girl? The others burst out laughing. Everyone was calling her "Chetita" now because of her. Ugh, that "cheta" said it to you with that smile you knew by heart. The same one he used to tease you with. "I came to buy something, genius, hurry up or I'm going to the Chinese store," I said, crossing my arms. Lisandro scratched the back of his neck. He looked me up and down slowly. "Ugh, you're such a busy little rich girl," she said, drawing out the words, perfectly imitating my mom when she scolds me. "Okay, fine, come in. But you'll pay in advance."